


Furtive

by DoYouCeeEmNow



Series: A Fitting Finale [5]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Smut, Travelers as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoYouCeeEmNow/pseuds/DoYouCeeEmNow
Summary: “A party?” Ophilia asked.“An engagement party,” Primrose explained. “Some lordling has caught the eye of young Cordelia Ravus, and rumour has it they’ll announce their engagement at the party. Or he’ll propose. It’s not clear. Regardless, it appears the jewel of Bolderfall is spoken for at last―”Therion’s tankard slipped. Primrose’s voice trailed off. The ale went splattering across the floor.It seemed that all their gazes turned to Therion at once with varying degrees of earnest concern.There was no reason to, Therion thought, as he wiped his ale-soaked hand against the checkered tablecloth. So his hand had faltered. So what? Accidents happened.Even to the steadiest pickpocket this side of the Middlesea.
Relationships: Cordelia Ravus/Therion
Series: A Fitting Finale [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1119207
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	Furtive

**Author's Note:**

> Wait, you ask. The travelers're meeting NOW?
> 
> Yes. Right now.
> 
> But what about Alfyn and Cyrus and Primrose? DON'T THEY GET HAPPY FINALES TOO?
> 
> Yes, they do. _After_ this. ::wooshing hands::

Bolderfall’s Wild Birdian Tavern was busy and noisy and rife with clinking pockets, but for once Therion ignored all of the temptations on his way to the back table. Eight chairs, seven of which were filled with unlikely drinking companions, and a carpet in the corner for a snow leopard.

Even when a man dropped his coinpurse right in Therion’s path, he didn’t touch it.

_ Don’t mix business and leisure _ , Therion wryly thought.

This, he realized, did not go unnoticed by his companions.

“...  _ Well _ ,” Cyrus said, as Therion approached with a pitcher to refill their mugs.

Therion glanced at him and, over the scholar’s shoulder, at the faces of all the others, a sudden surge of annoyance warring with his gladness at seeing them again.

The professor might have  _ merely  _ said ‘well’, but he’d stretched the damn syllable all the way, in that irritating way of his that implied far more than just ‘well’, and the others were watching him with their own varying levels of curiosity.

Therion paused, narrowed his eyes at the professor. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” That was the apothecary, reaching to take the pitcher from his hands and serve the others. His voice was high-pitched in his attempt at innocence, his tone as innocuous as he could make it. The only problem was that Alfyn had never been good at dissembling.

It was on the face of the little merchant, though. Tressa was positively trembling with the effort to keep quiet.

Therion rolled his eyes. “What?”

“You’re nicer here than in any of the other cities―” Tressa started.

Before a further flood of words could erupt from Tressa’s mouth, Ophilia’s gentle voice took over, the cleric sending him that annoyingly sweet smile. “Yes, isn’t Bolderfall  _ nice _ ?”

She meant it. Therion squinted at her even more. “Nice,” he echoed, flatly.

“Aye, this city hath its charms.” Now Therion turned, looking at the huntress. H’aanit was holding a piece of chicken out to Linde, absorbed by the way her giant pet licked her fingers.

“It does,” Primrose agreed, languidly. The dancer was toying with a golden bangle on her wrist, ignoring the interested gazes of onlookers. “Bolderfall is a  _ very  _ charming city.”

The sight of that bangle and the turn of that phrase made Therion angry.

But it was better to be angry than scared, he figured.

How were they so good at sizing him up, anyway?

Inhaling deeply, Therion turned to Olberic. “I imagine,” he said, to the tall, taciturn warrior, “that you have an opinion, too?”

Olberic studied the contents of his tankard. He was drinking a dark local ale and seemed more focused on assessing its taste and quality than in making conversation. But he put the tankard down and looked his way. “Bolderfall has a reputation for strong ales, which suits me. Surely that was reason enough for coming here? Or did your suggestion of reuniting in Bolderfall have a deeper meaning?”

This prompted chuckles from the others, and Therion rolled his eyes.

“There is no meaning to it,” he said, to no one in particular and all of them at once. “You were the ones who said this yearly reunion should be in a different city each year. If you objected to Bolderfall, why didn’t you say so  _ last year _ ?”

“You’re right, darling, we agreed,” Primrose conceded warmly, the pretty smile on her face matching the way her eyes glittered with kind amusement. “It was Bolderfall’s turn this year, just as it was Rippletide’s last year.”

“Right,” Therion said, firmly. “And  _ next  _ year, we can go to Cobbleston, or something, and you can―  _ what _ is that smile about?” He interrupted himself, glaring at Tressa’s ear-to-ear grin.

The expression on the young merchant’s face melted somewhat, and she began to whine. “D’aw, I’m just happy, is all.”

“Don’t you listen to him,” Ophilia cooed, smiling as she rubbed Tressa’s back. “Therion is just on edge because he’s nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Therion argued, taking a long swill of ale to show just how not nervous he was.

Æber have mercy, why did he still show up to these things? Four years on and they were still congregating in a different tavern every year, as though spurred by the ridiculous sentimentality of shared experience. Which was all nice and fine, except Therion wasn’t a sentimental man.

He wasn’t.

Mercifully, H’aanit changed the subject by asking Tressa how she was doing. It was comforting to see the group’s focus turn to someone else. Tressa was as old now as Therion had been when they’d begun their journeys, and she had learned a lot, she claimed, about shipping lanes on the sea lately. She had applied for a permanent merchant’s permit in Grandport ― aaand Therion was tuning out already. Tressa was as lawful and by-the-book as they came. Therion was decidedly not.

He studied the foam on his ale as Ophilia told of her adoptive sister’s tribulations within the Church. Cyrus asked the blonde cleric whether she had any plans of her own, and Ophilia flushed shyly, revealing that she was being courted by someone, which had led to many raised brows.

“ _ Who _ ?” Tressa had blurted out, embarrassed when a few good-natured chuckles sounded.

Ophilia had pressed her lips together, too shy to respond, and Therion did not miss the way she focused on her mug of mead, refusing to tell.

Oh, it was all in good humour when  _ she  _ did it, then. Therion resisted the urge to roll his eyes, when his gaze met Primrose’s knowing glance. He scowled at her, and turned back to his own drink.

H’aanit had an apprentice of her own now, named Ashlan. She was teaching him all about beast taming. And she had a beau too, which she only conceded once Tressa pestered her about it enough:  _ Alaic _ , of all people.

Good for her, Therion mulled darkly. It seemed every single one of them had  _ somebody _ : Tressa was going into business with Ali, good luck to her; Cyrus was, as usual, oblivious to every woman around him, but surrounded by eager debutantes all the same; Alfyn was thinking of opening an apothecarium with his friend Zeph; Primrose, for her part, had a veritable slew of admirers from Wispermill to Saintsbridge, all of them eager to restart the Azelhart line… Hell, even Olberic, who seemed too preoccupied with training Cobbleston’s youths to care a whit about having a companion, appeared to be forming a family of sorts with the people in his village and a beautiful Knight Ardante.

But Therion…

“You have to admit,” Alfyn said, leaning back in his chair with lazy satisfaction and sipping at his mug, “we’re all really making our way in the world, aren’t we?”

“Hear, hear,” Cyrus agreed, raising his highball glass. “Perhaps by this time next year, you will be drinking with the new headmaster of Atlasdam’s royal academy.”

Ophilia clasped her hands together with beatific delight. “Really, Professor?”

Cyrus shrugged, suddenly abashed, “Well, yes, possibly. If I play my cards right.”

“Good luck,” Olberic’s deep voice rumbled. “I can’t imagine a more able candidate.”

Cyrus’ brows rose high up, almost to his hairline, “Now that is high praise, coming from the Unbending Blade ― I think I will blush.”

“You know,” Tressa said, to Primrose, who glanced at her serenely, “if we’re going to be spending a few days in Bolderfall, I might as well see if I can’t buy some interesting things ahead of the party. It’ll be so big, other merchants are bound to be in town.”

“The party?” Ophilia asked, turning. “What party?”

Alfyn was leaning in now, a big dopey grin spreading on his face. “Did someone say party?”

“She means the engagement party,” Primrose explained. “Some lordling has caught the eye of young Cordelia Ravus, and rumour has it they’ll announce their engagement at the party. Or he’ll propose. It’s not clear. Regardless, it appears the jewel of Bolderfall is spoken for at last―”

Therion’s tankard slipped. Primrose’s voice trailed off. The ale went splattering across the floor.

It seemed that all their gazes turned to Therion at once with varying degrees of earnest concern.

There was no reason to, Therion thought, as he wiped his ale-soaked hand against the checkered tablecloth. So his hand had faltered. So what? Accidents happened. Even to the steadiest pickpocket this side of the Middlesea.

He threw a cloth napkin to the ground to soak up the worst of it.

There was no reason for Tressa to look so scared, nor for Alfyn to wince like that. Hells, why were they all staring? Did he have something on his face?

“Er, Therion, are you alright, buddy?” Alfyn asked, watching him as the napkin drank up all the ale.

“I’m fine,” Therion said. Except for that white-hot rage still pulsing in his blood, but that was…

He wasn’t going to dwell on that.

“So,” Cyrus said, milking that syllable with as much leisurely detachment as he could as he turned back to Primrose politely, “I imagine all the noble houses will be invited to the... er, eventual wedding?”

The corners of Therion’s vision were growing red. He let out all the air in his lungs as quietly as he could.

Fine question, that. No doubt Primrose  _ Azelhart  _ was going to be invited. Cyrus Albright too, given his meteoric rise in academia. Ophilia Clement just might ― if her relationship to the church was deemed noble enough. Olberic Eisenberg was a living legend; he just might be sought out for the occasion. Tressa Colzione, Alfyn Greengrass and H’aanit of S’warkii weren’t noble, but they were making names for themselves all the same―

And then there was Therion. Just Therion.

Therion Quickhand, some called him. Therion Lightfoot.

Therion No-Name. Therion Nobody.

Therion I-Knew-I-Should-Have-Come-Back-Sooner.

Therion It’s-Not-Like-I-Like-Her-That-Way.

Therion She’s-Too-Young-To-Be-Getting-Married-Right?

Therion Hells-What-Is-Wrong-With-Me-She-Has-Made-Her-Choice-Dammit―

“Er,” Tressa interrupted his fit of fury by leaning in to study his face. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look―”

“Apoplectic,” Cyrus supplied, unhelpfully.

“I’m... fine,” Therion said, forcing a smile. Everyone at the table recoiled slightly.

_ So what? _ Therion asked himself. So  _ what _ ? So what if she always greeted him with that radiant smile when he came by? So what if he kept coming back to Bolderfall, inexorably, inevitably, like the tide, like the moonrise?

So what if he kept piling up all that bloody coin in that unmarked cave?

_ Cordelia Ravus _ .  _ Engaged to someone else. Engaged to be  _ married.

_ Engaged! _ Hah! The fucking blasphemy.

It wasn’t like he could blame her. Every time he showed up, she kept cheerfully welcoming him in, and he kept making excuses to leave again, because― Because―

Because he was coward.

Well, it served him right, he told himself, rising from his chair and stepping over the mess he’d made. The others watched him, some nervously, some impassively, and two of them ― Olberic and Primrose, those bastards ― with knowing grins.

“Need a new mug,” he mumbled, by way of explanation, and he strode off towards the bar.

Behind him, the conversation resumed, but Therion’s ears were buzzing.

He had to be getting old, he thought. Why else did he feel so unstable, so dizzyingly off-kilter? Was twenty-six years of age considered old? Twenty-six years of hard-knock living, mind, and one too many nights spent out of doors... Twenty-six years of roaming aimlessly, without a single person to call home.

Twenty-six years and he was still a petty thief, with only a few truly great heists under his belt.

And one  _ gigantic  _ fiasco. So to speak.

Not that he was going to think about it. He wasn’t going to think about it. He wasn’t. And  _ she  _ wasn’t going to feature in any of his thoughts tonight. For a change.

Because, he decided, leaning against the sticky oak bar in the hope of catching the busy barkeep’s eye, he was going to get absolutely piss-fucking-drunk. And you can’t think if you’re passed out.

An excellent plan, if ever there was one.

* * *

Cordelia Ravus was not pleased.

She very rarely got angry, least of all at her caring, sweet-natured, devious butler.

So today was far from customary.

Heathcote was reading his letters, very deliberately not looking at her or acknowledging her glare in any way, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as though to lend him an aristocratic air. As though she couldn’t see the rugged, worn man he really was, as though she couldn’t recognize the calluses and the tiny prick scars on his hands from manipulating one too many lockpicks.

“Heathcote.”

He still wasn’t looking at her. He had most assuredly heard her, but he was apparently intent on pretending he was deaf.

“Heathcote,” she said again, most insistently.

Now he made a great show of noticing her, his brows going up, his eyes darting to her with that feigned dazedness he always pretended at. “Oh, Lady Cordelia. Forgive me, I did not hear you approach.”

He had absolutely heard her approach. Thieves, even reformed ones, did not live to his ripe old age without having some measure of alertness.

Cordelia squinted at him, and decided to let that one go. There was a real hill for her to do battle upon, and his mannerisms did not signify. “What is this I heard from Lady Wyndham?”

Heathcote blinked at her, still playing at innocence. “I cannot begin to guess, milady.”

“Apparently,” she prompted, “there will be an unexpected guest at my party? A guest with designs towards my person?”

Now Heathcote frowned, evidently intent on seeming confused. “I don’t believe so, milady. I checked all the invitation responses myself. Twice.”

Servants scurried around them, arranging the candelabras, airing out the tablecloths. Outside, the gardeners had finished sweeping the paths, trimming the hedges, clipping the rosebushes. In the kitchens, the cooks had prepared a veritable feast, adding delicate candies to perfect little cakes, arranging entire fruit platters to form kaleidoscopic shapes ― it was a dizzying spectacle.

“I heard from Lady Wyndham,” she said, gently reigning in her temper, “who heard from Lady Sennedi, who herself heard from Lady Belmond that I am to welcome a very irksome  _ someone _ tomorrow, during the party.”

“Indeed?” Heathcote asked, but the fact that he expressed little to no surprise was a telltale sign.

“And Lady Belmond would know,” Cordelia said, as placidly as she could, “as she was once a madam of her own little…  _ parlour _ . One I’m told you used to be familiar with?”

A look of cheerful nostalgia flitted across Heathcote’s face for the briefest of instants. Then he schooled his expression once again to polite curiosity. “I can neither affirm nor deny such a crude accusation, milady. Mostly I wish to protest.”

“Protest away,” she granted. “The fact remains that you, my dear Heathcote, have played a hand against me, your darling protégée. And I am not happy about it.”

“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” Heathcote politely said. “This is a most grievous charge you are laying at my feet, milady.”

He was too calm; it was as good as the confession Cordelia needed. “Heathcote, tomorrow’s celebration was meant to be a pleasant party among friends.”

“And it will be,” Heathcote smiled, the wrinkled corners of his eyes wrinkling further. “All is well under control.”

“Then why have you invited Hugo Byron?”

Heathcote managed a somewhat convincing look of surprise. “He was your childhood friend. I did not realize his request for an invitation was to be refused.”

Cordelia exhaled through her nose. “You know Hugo has been pursuing me. Hoping to marry me. He’s about as subtle about his interest as a bull in a porcelain shop.”

“If you wish for me to rescind the invitation, milady, it is not too late.”

_ Rescind  _ the invitation. Cordelia squinted at her butler like he’d grown a second head. He knew as well as she did that rescinding an invitation extended to one of the foremost families of Orsterra was an affront she could hardly risk. Not now. Not with so few friends to rely upon. The relations of House Ravus with the other great houses were tenuous, in dire need of rebuilding.

“We cannot rescind the invitation,” she said. Perhaps he was growing senile. He seemed a little shy of senile years yet, but Cordelia couldn’t claim to have the necessary medical expertise to make that formal assessment with any confidence. “But I am very cross with you, Heathcote. Hugo Byron is a plague on my patience.”

“No doubt, milady,” Heathcote calmly agreed.

“You seem entirely unfazed,” Cordelia observed, discarding any pretense at subtlety. “Can’t you at least pretend to be dejected?”

Heathcote smiled, eyes glittering. “I am certain, milady, that you have every ability to withstand young Lord Byron’s pestilence with grace and dignity.”

Heathcote was senile, Cordelia decided, firmly. She ought to have seen that coming. “Now I must find myself some sort of… excuse to avoid his attentions.” More to herself than to her butler, she muttered in the most unladylike fashion, “Perhaps a terrible megrim would be just the thing.”

Now Heathcote cleared his throat, and she raised blue eyes back to look at him.

“If I may, milady,” he said, all crisp dignity, “Perhaps you could simply give consideration to the attentions of some other young hopeful.”

Well,  _ that  _ would be quite the notion, Cordelia thought, nearly snorting. Now it all made sense; her butler was trying to pair her. She eyed him. Heathcote’s expression was nothing but polite blankness. “You want me to find a suitor.”

The man made a motion with his shoulder that could have been a shrug, if he were to stoop to such low levels of indignity. “Or I could rescind young Hugo’s invitation. But it’s time you stopped… mourning.” He shot her a significant look.

Mourning. Or did he mean  _ pining _ ? She felt herself flush.

Stuff and bother. Cordelia sighed, finally relenting. “Fine,” she said, defeated, “but not Hugo Byron, Heathcote. For shame.”

“I shall endeavour to find some way to keep him occupied, milady.”

“I would appreciate that. With  _ discretion _ ,” she added, sternly. “And the next time some young… ‘hopeful’,” she said, crooking her fingers, “wants to invite himself, ask me first. Please.”

“Naturally,” Heathcote agreed, with not even the slightest hint of mortification.

He was getting too comfortable, Cordelia thought. That was it. Senility wouldn’t make him this smug.

She left him to his mail and strode away, preoccupied.

The maids were finishing up for the day; the evening was growing late, and Cordelia sent them about their personal business, warning them to get a proper night’s sleep in preparation for the morrow. The last of them was out the door by the time the clock rang the eleventh hour, and Cordelia found herself yawning.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. She was expecting over fifty guests ― even under the best circumstances, Hugo Byron couldn’t expect her full and undivided attention for more than a fraction of the evening. She could dodge him and his heavy-handed overtures.

It was unfortunate, of course, that she had to dodge him at all. Not only tomorrow, but in general. She had thought the attention following her parents’ deaths had been bad. She had not anticipated that reaching the age of majority would attract another sort of carrion bird.

No, she told herself, shaking her head. Carrion bird was too blunt a name for the sort of attention she was getting now. Simpering sops was closer to the reality of it; young hopefuls of some means and circumstance from across Orsterra were desperate for her  _ regard _ , a sweet euphemism.

What they wanted was her hand in marriage, and sometimes they even had an eye for  _ her _ , the person attached to that hand.

It was comforting, she dryly thought, to know that beyond her title and her wealth, she had other assets to lend her desirability.

As Heathcote set about to extinguishing the last sconces, she entered her room, the only inner sanctum she truly had, and spared a glance for her reflection. Then gently slowed to a stop.

She didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, sometimes. It always gave her pause. She wasn’t a girl, really. She looked like a woman. It wasn’t quite fair.

Inhaling deeply, she moved past the mirror, pushing any self-pitying observations to the back of her mind. What she looked like didn’t matter. Not really. She could have been the most hideous slug in the realm and her fortune would have made men call her beautiful.

Her eyes drifted over the four dragonstones, arrayed under a single display glass in the corner of her room, and those  _ did  _ give her pause.

“I wonder where you are,” she told the emerald. The green stone did not reply. Not that she expected it to. Her gaze slid to the gold dragonstone, then the ruby. “It’s been… months. Almost a year, hasn’t it?” She went to her bed and sank on it, her eyes still fixed on the dragonstones. The sapphire gleamed coolly. “I know you’ve been visiting those friends of yours, those fellow travelers. I’m glad. You needed true friends.”

Her heart squeezed, a brief and fleeting sentiment that she didn’t indulge in.

If it really came down to it, Cordelia mused, turning away and beginning to unbutton her dress, all the attempts at courtship might not have seemed so daunting in different circumstances. Noa Wyndham certainly seemed to be enjoying the attentions of Orsterra’s most eligible men. She had confided that she was in no hurry to choose ― after all, why not enjoy the chase while she was chaseable?

But to Cordelia, the perpetual compliments and requests for dances felt like empty gestures.

She would have enjoyed it all, under different circumstances... She sighed, pursing her lips.

If she’d let the dragonstones go, perhaps.

If she hadn’t met him.

She nearly snorted, amused at herself. A fanciful notion. Letting the dragonstones go would have been unthinkable. And he had walked into her life because he was the one she had needed. All the others had failed before she could even know their faces, let alone their names.

But she knew his face. She knew it so well she could picture it in her mind’s eye, could almost trace its imaginary lines with her fingers.

Pale hair. Keen eyes. A carefully disinterested tone. And a smell of apples.

And fingers so fleet and featherlight they could lift anything from anyone. Including her purse of silver, that one time. Not that she was going to begrudge him that. She had carried it  _ for  _ him, hoping against hope that he would reach out, which he had.

She hadn’t missed the way those fingers had lingered against her waist, as though he were willing to risk exposure. … For what?

He’d returned the purse later. He was as good at putting things in their place as he was at lifting them. And Cordelia had wondered why he hadn’t kept her gift. He was too proud to beg, and certainly too proud to accept direct handouts ― but something he’d stolen, fair and square? She hadn’t expected him to be honourable about it.

The foolish, naive girl inside wanted to believe he just wanted an excuse to touch her. But that was a fanciful notion, too.

Her dress crumpled to the floor and she let out a heavy sigh. Was twenty-one too young to be so tired?

Glancing out the window at the clear sky, she wondered.

* * *

“Therion.  _ Therion _ , that is your eighth tankard.”

Therion had to admire the fact that Cyrus’ voice wasn’t nearly as slurred as it ought to have been. The scholar seemed even better able to drink than before. He blinked at the older man over the rim of his tankard and attempted to give him an appreciative nod, but all it did was make his head spin.

Alfyn was giggling to himself, and when he spoke his voice  _ was  _ slurred. “Well done, Professhor. Even shmashed, you can shtill count.”

Alfyn wasn’t exactly being fair. The apothecary was absolutely drunk, but Therion had no doubt that, should the need arise, he’d be able to clear his mind sufficiently to brew up concoctions with his habitual medical precision.

It was a small comfort that he could rely on them all.

His vision swam over to where Tressa and Ophilia were dozing off in their chairs under Olberic and H’aanit’s watchful eyes. They were drunk too, but they loomed so ominously that none of the bar’s patrons would have dared approach the sleeping women.

Primrose returned with more ale, ignoring a catcall from a man too drunk to stand. She placed the tankards in front of Therion and awarded him a smug smile. “Ready for the next round?”

A small wave of nausea threatened to take over. Therion blinked blearily up at her and nodded wordlessly.

Primrose’s brow furrowed, but she slid a tankard over to him anyway.

Cyrus reached out, though, and seized the tankard for himself. “No, I think that’s enough. The last thing we need is for him to reach an alcoholic coma.”

“Then our goals are at odds with each other,” Therion mumbled, plucking the tankard from his hand. The beer inside sloshed, and Therion took one long, miserable swill.

It didn’t make him feel better.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Cyrus said, frowning. “Surely the news of Miss Ravus’ engagement can’t have come as a surprise.”

The edges of Therion’s vision coloured red, but he took a deep breath and let the anger recede back into its usual background haze. “No surprise,” he agreed. Then, for good measure, “I don’t care.”

It was a lie. Therion wondered if they’d buy it.

Primrose snorted. Apparently not.

“If it bothers you so much,” she said, leaning back in her chair and blatantly ignoring Therion’s declaration of detachment, “why don’t you steal away inside that manor and tell her what you think?”

Now it was Therion’s turn to snort. “It’s past midnight.” And she probably had other things on her mind. Her engagement party, for one. To some lordling… some… “Who did you say she was engaged to?”

“Hugo Byron was the rumour I heard,” Primrose said, the warm notes of her voice brimming with amusement. “A milksop by any other name… But his family commands a not unimpressive amount of money and quite a few merchant ships. And he’s been famously pursuing Lady Cordelia for the past year or so, waiting for her to reach majority and finally be marriageable. If he proposes, the rumour says she might agree.”

Bastard. Now Therion remembered the man. He’d only seen him once ― and from afar, as his carriage rolled up in front of Ravus Manor, causing Cordelia to groan and immediately begin pressing down the wrinkles in her dress and arrange those flyaway strands of golden hair that always caught the light around her face, like an angelic halo. She had begged him to stay, to keep out of sight, but by the time she had returned to the back garden, Therion had run.

Therion always ran.

She had talked about Byron, about his incessant letters. And Therion had lifted one, read its pitiful rhymes, and believed he was safe, that she would never―

Well.

So much for that.

“I always thought Lady Cordelia would prove more discerning,” Cyrus remarked, thoughtfully, matching Therion’s thoughts exactly. “Surely with a family and fortune like hers, she could have had a prince.”

_ Damn  _ the scholar. Therion took another angry swill of ale.

Primrose shrugged. “The heart wants what it wants,” she said, her voice husky with years of practice at making statements sound like erotic appeals. By now they came naturally to her, and if she still noticed the effect they had on the apothecary and the scholar, she did not let on.

Alfyn shifted his position in his chair and cleared his throat, though that did little to help with his slur. “Maybe she wash tired of waiting.”

“Waiting?” Cyrus echoed, frowning. “Waiting for what? Oh.” His eyes landed on Therion, who glared at him darkly. “Right.” A tiny, knowing smile spread on the man’s face. “Well, you did say you wanted freedom, young Therion.”

Therion knew what that meant.  _ You made your bed, now lie in it. _

_ Freedom _ . Therion wanted to scoff. Under the table, he flexed his wrist, remembering the weight of the Fool’s Bangle. Remembering the horror and the shame of getting caught… then the curiosity.

Even now, it remained his most foolhardy failure. He’d never known freedom again, after that day. Not really. Even after Heathcote had unlocked the damn thing and he’d realized he could go, run, and never return to fulfill his end of the bargain―

Freedom. An absurd concept. He’d been trapped from that fateful day and onward, not by obligation or commitment or even that damn Bangle, but rather by arresting blue eyes and a sweet voice that spoke to him with so much… kindness.

How many times in the days and nights that followed had he fiddled with the Bangle, opening it… then latching it back onto his arm? And how many times had he considered simply telling her he’d do it just because she’d  _ asked _ ?

Perhaps he had wanted to feel obligated. It felt safer than the alternative.

None of that justified the years that followed. After the Bangle was gone and he was truly freed, he kept… returning. Sometimes, she’d see him. Sometimes he’d stay hidden: in the crowd, in the trees, in the night.

She captivated him. In the purest sense of the word: he was her captive. And worse of all, he liked it that way.

Freedom! He had let go of his freedom with a smile, confident that time would be in his favour.

But he had been wrong.

“I do have my freedom,” he said, to Cyrus.

He just didn’t want it.

“Well,” Alfyn said, sighing contentedly as he leaned back in his chair, “if it were me, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.”

Therion nearly smiled. Alfyn was kind, no doubt about it, but he really had a cocky side. It was one of the only things that made his unfailing optimism and selflessness tolerable, the one thing they had in common.

And he was right. Therion wasn’t the kind of man who just rolled over, either.

And an idea was blossoming in his mind, an idea that he feared was a little too ambitious, even for him.

It was Primrose who noticed the change in his expression first, and her eyebrow twitched, a brief furrow that said she was suddenly paying active attention.

“Therion?”

“What would a man have to do to grab your attention, Primrose?” Therion asked, politely. The more he thought on the matter, the more the drunken haze seemed to lift.

Alfyn and Cyrus were now listening with intent curiosity.

“My attention?” Primrose repeated, amusement tinting her voice.

“Your affections,” Therion clarified, deciding to be straightforward at last.

Primrose was silent for a moment, thinking. No doubt Therion wasn’t the first to inquire, although he might well have been the first to ask so bluntly. “I… don’t know,” she admitted. “But I think you’re not asking me personally, are you? What you really mean is, what should a man do to earn the attention of the last remaining daughter of one of Orsterra’s great houses?”

Therion didn’t reply. A smile of grim satisfaction spread on Primrose’s face.

“Dear Therion,” she purred. “I would argue that for the right man, it’s enough to simply show up.”

* * *

Cordelia tried to sleep. In vain.

The moonlight was already halfway across the floor of her room, a pale light that seemed to mark the passing of time as surely as a ticking clock.

The diaphanous curtains on her windows were billowing silently, like sails on a ship. It was hot in Bolderfall, especially in the summer, so it was only right that she should keep the windows open. She had planned refreshments aplenty for tomorrow’s celebration.

Not that the hot wind was doing much to cool her down. And anyway, it wasn’t the heat that kept her up.

Or, well… Not the heat in the air.

She exhaled, hating herself, and turned over to avoid looking at the stupidly bright moonlight. She felt feverish, rotten to the core, and, above all, lonely.

She wasn’t going to do anything, she swore to herself, frustrated. She was going to keep her hands above blanket, as it were. Perhaps the frustration would be useful tomorrow, to drive off Hugo Byron’s attentions.

Yes, better to think of Byron ― that made things easier. Much easier than imagining what it would be like to have agile hands on her and deep chuckles between her―

She stifled a groan.

Stuff and bother. She was hopeless. She had hoped, indeed _prayed_ , that the surges of want she felt most of her waking days would dim with time, that they were merely products of late girlhood, and that her drives would redirect to more productive pursuits.

It would be trivial, she knew, to find a reliable and discreet man to help her. If Heathcote knew of various brothels―

No. Gods, no. Heathcote was a resourceful person, but also old enough to be her father, and he certainly acted like it. Gods, what was she thinking? She wasn’t going to ask Heathcote if he knew some source of male flesh, possibly with the palest hair and the cheekiest grin―

She didn’t even notice when she hitched up her nightgown, but she stilled her hand before it could go anywhere untoward. It was wrong, she decided. Wrong to picture a real person, rather than some fictional, faceless prince charming. Gods, she’d never be able to face him again without flushing to her ears.

Still, in the darkness of the night, she allowed her lips to voicelessly form the syllables of his name, feeling the way her tongue curled against her teeth for the first sound, then writhed as it made the second. There was something plainly erotic about it, and she knew it would sound good in between gasps.

Gods. Even now she could imagine him, the sharp lines and planes of his face, the way his lashes curled, the way he moved, fleet and graceful and deadly, and the way a single dimple appeared in his cheek when he allowed himself one of his rare smiles. Even now she imagined him smiling down at her, studying her lazily, like a cait studying his prey, and she knew her imagination would soon take over.

The reality of his behaviour never matched up with her true, desperate hopes. In the first year after the return of the dragonstones, she remembered, she had entertained fanciful notions about him. Her daydreams had been nothing but gallant kisses and whispers of sweet nothings. A girlhood fantasy, at the very least.

In the second year, she had grown more feverish; her daydreams involved deep, fervent kisses, roaming hands and smiles that resembled his cheeky grins with more accuracy.

The third year of his visits had led her down a much less romantic path, one that burned with desire. And whether she had meant to or not, she had begun to notice that on the rare occasions when he returned, he was painfully careful not to touch her.

Oh, he’d touched her before, rarely. Never more than fleeting, passing brushes, but he’d touched her all the same. One time his finger had run across her nape, teasing at the clasp of some heavy necklace ― like he’d meant to lift it directly from her bosom, and she had laughed, breathlessly, as he explained how he would do it. His breath had whispered against her ear, and she’d felt a flush of heat wash over her.

She had started wearing more plunging necklines after that, but he’d never tried again.

By the time  _ this  _ year, the fourth year since, had started, Cordelia had developed terribly lustful notions about what she would let him do to her.

Four years! Four years of careful, light touches ― so little, a woman might think she was hideous.

But Cordelia was certain that wasn’t it. She never asked him to come back. He did it of his own accord. And when he was here, he burned about her like a flame. His words kept their deadpan flatness, except when they didn’t and he revealed himself to be a passionate person with a sense of humour and a kindness―

And his eyes. They were keen, sharp, alive. When he looked at her, she could feel his gaze as clearly as the pads of his fingers, could imagine its caress, its warmth.

And though he’d never touched her inappropriately, she could feel his heavy gaze on her, in those moments where they would fall silent and the world seemed to go quiet with them, she could feel his attraction, could feel he was desperately holding back. She wasn’t stupid.

But  _ he  _ was, Cordelia decided, frustrated. A stupid, stupid, stubbornly honourable man, if ever one of them walked the earth.

Who would have thought a thief would be so  _ bloody  _ chivalrous? It had been charming for a while, and then it had quickly grown wearisome. Sometimes, all a woman wanted was for someone to touch her.

Too late, she realized her hand was between her legs, and by then she didn’t care anymore.

This wasn’t the first time she ended up in this situation because of him. In fact, it was becoming a frequent problem.

Sighing, she tried to imagine someone else ― someone false, fictional, anyone. But grey eyes kept returning to her mind, and with them an imagined whisper of a breath against her cheek, against her neck, against her collarbone. She closed her eyes and let out a ragged sigh.

Therion. Even now he haunted her thoughts, and she knew it wasn’t going to end well.

She wanted him. She wanted his hands all over her, his mouth on hers, his whole body moving in time to her needs. She wanted to know what he tasted like, to find out if she could feel his lean muscles rippling under her fingers, under his skin. She wanted to let him inside of her, to offer herself up and take him, too, to know what it was like to have someone moving between her legs.

Now her breathing was growing shallow. Right there, against her fingers, she was slick with want. Her hips were rocking slowly, rhythmically, in just that way that would end it. Her lips dropped open and she briefly considered burying her face into her pillow ― but what would be the point? She was alone in this wing of the house. No one would hear her.

A gasping breath erupted from her lungs as she found the right rhythm. Firm, slow, continuous. Oh, gods, it felt good. But this was still just her own hand ― and he had such able fingers, she knew.

Now a vocal mewl erupted from her throat. Gods, he would be masterful at this, she was sure of it. And if not, she could teach him. How quietly erotic that would be ― to instruct him, to teach him that he had to keep going, that the very last thing she wanted was for him to stop―

“Oh,” she moaned, as a particularly good press of her fingers made the first wave crest within her. She was squeezing her breast with her other hand, imagining him instead, thinking that he might be looking down at her, urging her onward teasingly, whispering impossibly dirty things into her ear. He did have five years on her ― a lifetime of experience by comparison ― and no doubt a memory of terribly arousing things to whisper to a girl in moments like these.

She imagined his satisfaction, the curl of his lips as he murmured, ‘That’s my girl’, and with a weak, strangled cry, the pleasure inside of her exploded into a million drops of heat, washing over her again and again.

Moments passed in which the haze slowly faded. At length, the world returned to focus, and with it the self-loathing.

Gods, what was  _ wrong  _ with her?

She buried her face into her pillow now, muffling a scream of embarrassment.

Therion was not interested. Or, if he was, he wasn’t going to act on it. And she had effectively ruined any chance of seeing him next time without blushing deep.

She ought to have focused on Hugo Byron ― on his fat lips and pretentious self-importance. He was nothing like Therion: ostentatious where her thief was understated, large where he was lean, loud where he was quiet, proud where Therion was confident. It would be a cold day in hell when Cordelia Ravus, with her wealth and her history and her needs, ever thought of Hugo Byron with a fraction of the passion she felt for a man who seemed hellbent on not touching her if he could avoid it.

In that moment, though, all Cordelia wanted to do was whine.  _ Why _ didn’t Therion want to touch her? Why was he avoiding her? Why did he never stay?

The obvious answer was the least appealing: he wasn’t interested. Not in the way she wanted. Perhaps every touch he’d allowed ― that time with the necklace, and that time with the purse of silver, and countless other thoughtless little moments where he’d placed a hand to the small of her back, or their fingers had brushed as they exchanged things ― perhaps every single one of those touches had been accidental, unavoidable, unwanted on his part.

Oh, Cordelia thought, dread settling into her stomach, if he thought of her as a friend ―or worse, as a  _ sister _ !― she’d simply die. No doubt the maws of hell would open up under her feet and she’d plunge into their depths, wailing all the way.

When sleep found her at last, it was fitful and restless, filled with a pale gaze and mocking smirks.

* * *

How Therion made it back to the Sleepy Cait Inn without stumbling, he would never know.

Overhead, the moon was already beginning its slow descent towards the horizon, and as the clock tower at city hall rang the third hour, Therion decided he was a damned fool.

He slipped into his room, glad that none of the others had noticed his absence or his return. They were probably sound asleep by now, in the arms of the deepest slumber. He’d rented one of the inn’s smaller rooms, mostly to eliminate the possibility of having to share with one of the others. He could have afforded larger, but in this instance, his decision was truly turning out to be a blessing.

Shutting the door behind him in complete silence, he took a deep breath, leaned against the panel, and tried to ignore his raging erection.

It served him right, his inner voice said. He rarely heard that voice ― it was his conscience, and its presence was either non-existent or ignored. In fact, it was rather telling that it sounded suspiciously like a mix of Ophelia’s firm piousness and Alfyn’s laidback admonitions.

He couldn’t be blamed, he firmly argued against himself. He was a thief. It was in his nature to skulk in the shadows. And he was a good listener, because you had to be to find the real quarries.

And he was a man, damn it all, even if he did do his utmost to seem like a cynical ghost.

_ You  _ spied  _ on her _ , his conscience replied, outraged.  _ In her most intimate of moments, too _ , it added, as though Therion could fucking forget.

He couldn’t deny it, that was for sure. By all the gods, he wasn’t a religious man, but one couldn’t turn their back― one couldn’t fight things like that.

He hadn’t meant to, he firmly decided. He hadn’t meant to see any of it. How could he have known? It was so damn late ― by that hour she was usually well and truly asleep, so soundly that she’d never notice him checking in on her.

But her windows had been open, and he was an idiot, anyhow.

He shut his eyes, and in the back of his eyelids he could see her again as she had been, pale in the moonlight, all writhing beauty, a tangle of sheets and long slender legs, a heaving set of small, perky breasts through the lightest fabric known to man―

Æber above, it was enough to make him think he might believe in the Flame after all.

He hadn’t meant to stay. He had only meant to do what he did every night when he happened to be in Bolderfall ― look in, make sure she was well, and leave.

But the sight of her in the throes of her own touch…? Well. It had struck him dumb.

She had been quiet, but not perfectly so, and it had been torture to hear her moan; even now the memory of those high-pitched gasps made him grow harder. He couldn’t be blamed for that. He was only mortal. She had looked so appealing, bucking as she had, her hand between her legs, somewhere he couldn’t see but could damn well imagine.

Sweet merciful gods. He felt lightheaded, the ache in him stronger than ever before.

Loosening his trousers, he slid a fervent hand into his pants and began to stroke himself, pressing his lips together to avoid making the slightest sound. He was unbearably hard, and he usually avoided doing this when he wasn’t alone in a building, but this time was pressing, urgent, as necessary as breathing and eating and stealing.

Cordelia had grown ― not  _ only  _ physically, but  _ definitely  _ physically ― into the kind of woman Therion knew he was too lowly for. But it didn’t keep the hunger at bay. How many times had she turned to him, angled herself just so, in ways that dared him to reach out, to embrace her, to run his hand against her arm, her back, her waist? She had tortured him for years on end, and with time her necklines had dropped, her jewellery had begun to nest on top of breasts he kept trying not to look at, and damn it, he was only  _ human _ .

It was wrong, he decided, stroking himself desperately. Now his head tilted backwards until it was resting against the door, and he shut his eyes, his hand working feverishly. He couldn’t stop.

She had been so perfect. So pure and innocent. And then she had dashed that image of angelic perfection against the rocks, so that now when he imagined her, he could only see a sweet face contorted in pleasure, a lovely maidenly body twisting and arching in bedsheets, and that gentle, kind voice making little mewls of desperate need.

Gods he wanted her. He wanted to bury himself in her up to the hilt, to feel her closing around him as he rocked and rocked and rocked―

His movement was growing frantic. He could feel the closeness of his release, the fierce violence of it.

‘Therion,’ she would gasp, half indignant, half drunk with pleasure. And she would make that sound again, that delightful little ‘oh’ that she had moaned as the orgasm had begun to take her.

The recollection slammed through him, and with a desperate grunt he came, hard, absolutely beyond caring that he had just ruined his breeches.

Then, stumbling towards the bed, he threw off his clothes, landed on the blankets quite naked, and began once again the slow simmer towards the next time this would inevitably happen.

Morning found him much too early, and he blinked, confused, at the amount of sunlight that poured in through the windows. The night before was a painful blur of alcohol, sneaking and― and the memories came flooding back to him suddenly, tinted with guilt and secret delight. What a spectacle he’d received. What a costly mistake.

Or perhaps not, he decided, rolling over onto his back and staring at the ceiling, the wheels in his mind beginning to speed up until they spun at their usual daytime speed. After all, he’d made a decision yesterday evening, while quite inebriated, and, in the cold light of day…

Hell, especially in light of what he’d witnessed last night…

There was no way he wasn’t going through with his plan.

Ophilia, H’aanit and Olberic were already up when he joined them in the small restaurant adjoining the inn, though Ophilia was by far the better rested of the lot. She waved at him merrily from the back, as though she believed he wouldn’t notice the salt-and-pepper giant sitting next to her in a mostly empty dining room.

Therion pulled a chair out and sat down, blearily blinking at the selection of pastries, cheeses and cold cuts in front of them. “Have the others given sign of life yet?” He asked.

H’aanit gave him a sidelong glance. At her side, Linde was curled up on the ground, sleepily enjoying a ray of sunshine. “It would appearen thou hast recovered better than any of them.”

Ophilia leaned forward across the table, her brow furrowed with characteristic concern. “Primrose told me you were very upset. Is there anything I can do?”

There would be, Therion thought, but he shook his head and managed a small smile. “Not yet.” He wasn’t the kind of person who truly smiled, he knew, but Ophilia was the kind of person who relied on smiles to ascertain that her friends were doing well, and despite himself, Therion did consider himself a friend.

“Alfyn thought you would need this,” Olberic said, gruffly, handing over a phial of a brownish liquid. 

Therion studied the glass container suspiciously. “What is it?”

“An antiemetic, he said,” the large warrior replied. “Though he also called it ‘hair of the dog’.”

Linde lifted her head and managed to look disgusted, but Therion snorted and set the phial back down on the table. “I think I’ll be fine. I went for a walk last night. Nothing like the night air to clear the head.” And torture a man with visions none should have to resist. Not that he’d say so aloud.

“Glad to hear it,” Olberic said. “He was concerned that you would still be out of commission, and I was warned that you had a busy day ahead.”

“Really?” Therion asked lazily, a smirk of amusement coming over his features. “And who told you this?”

“Primrose,” H’aanit replied. “Before going to bed, she told me that thou hadde a plan to interferen in this wedding.”

“It’s not a wedding,” Ophilia said, cheerfully, “it’s just an engagement. And engagements can be broken!”

Therion, H’aanit and Olberic all turned to her, and Therion raised a single brow. The pretty cleric blushed.

“I mean,” she stammered, “not that I would advocate for something so terrible.” She sighed, a smile taking over once again. “But it  _ is  _ so terribly  _ romantic _ .”

Therion made a noise in the back of his throat that prompted Olberic to helpfully offer him the antiemetic again, but Therion shook his head.

“It’s good to see you being so honest about your intentions, at least,” Olberic said, putting the phial back down. “You have never been the most straightforward of men.”

He could say that again. Therion lifted a glass of apple juice in a mocking toast. “My goal is to remain full of surprises.”

He didn’t get to take a single sip before a bouncing ball of energy suddenly appeared in his field of vision, accompanied by a high-pitched squeal of excitement: “ _ Is it true _ ?”

“Good morning, Tressa,” Ophilia greeted, as sunnily as the day outside.

Tressa, however, seemed to have lacked the time ― or the focus ― to brush her hair in its usual style. She looked like she had rolled out of bed that way: her clothes were rumpled, her hair was a mess, and she seemed half-mad. She peered into Therion’s eyes like a woman possessed. “Has Cyrus lied to me or did he tell the truth?”

“Er―”

“Give him a bit of space, darling, it’s too early for the inquisition,” Primrose’s morning voice suggested. It was deep and hoarse, the sort of voice that betrayed that the dancer was losing the habit of drinking late into the night. She reached their table and looked a little tired. “Good morning to all of you. Has anyone got some citrus to wake me up?”

“They have this,” Ophilia said, lifting a mug of steaming coffee. “I don’t know what it’s made of, but I need to bring some back home to Lianna. It’s very nice.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Primrose conceded, and she was off again, presumably to seek her own mug of the stuff. Therion turned his head and found Tressa still staring.

“Er,” he said, putting his mug down as gently as he could, “is everything alright?”

Tressa narrowed her eyes at him. “Prim said you were going to  _ buy  _ things today.”

Therion schooled his expression to remain as impassive as he could. “Is that so?”

Tressa immediately began to whine. “Aw, Therion, come  _ on _ ! If you’re going to be spending money, I can totally help you!”

Uncharacteristically, Therion smiled. Tressa began to hop from one foot to another with pure excitement.

“Oh,” she squeaked, “this is going to be great! Prim said you needed fancy clothes.” Immediately, her eyes lost their focus and she began to mutter to herself ― “If I set aside the sums for the market I saved up―”

“No need to draw from your own leaves,” Therion said, waving her concerns off with a lazy hand motion. “I’ll loosen my own purse strings for once.”

This drew a wide-eyed silence from his companions.

“I thinke I am still dreaming,” H’aanit flatly said at that, peering into her cup of milk, frowning. “Or this milk hath gone bad.”

A strong, tanned hand reached out and plucked the cup from her hand, as Alfyn peered into it intently.

“Good morning, Alfyn!” Ophilia chirped.

“It looks fine,” the apothecary finally said, handing the cup back to H’aanit, who snorted. “So I guess your hallucinations have some other cause.”

“Perhaps a full night of drinking,” Cyrus said, yawning, as the two men found chairs, “is not the ideal method to clear one’s head.” Next to him, Primrose cupped her mug of coffee between her hands and nodded slowly.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Ophilia cheerfully suggested, handing Primrose a full plate of buttery pastries, “perhaps we can discuss the plan for today?”

Therion took a large bite of apple as all eyes turned to him.

He shrugged.

“Helpful,” Cyrus deadpanned, and Therion was pleased to note he was rubbing off on the scholar.

“I think it’s pretty obvious, ain’t it?” Alfyn said, scratching at the stubble he hadn’t shaved. “Therion’s going to crash a party tonight.” He glanced at Tressa, who was positively bursting with excited trepidation, and said, “Ten leaves on the butler.”

“That ish a shtupid bet,” Tressa replied, her mouth full of cheese. She swallowed and said, “Twenty for Therion.”

“You’re on.”

Primrose rolled her eyes. “It’s fairly simple,” she explained. “Therion has a vested interest in preventing Lady Ravus from marrying Hugo Byron, partly because the lordling is a toad, and mostly because our Master Thief is desperately and hopelessly in love.”

Therion shot her a sharp glare. “Hey.”

“My apologies, darling,” Primrose said, amused, as Olberic and Cyrus chuckled, “I didn’t mean hopelessly in love. I mean that you are a good friend who is looking out for the girl’s interests, of course.”

_ A girl no more _ , Therion mused, taking a long swill of apple juice. Last night had certainly driven the point home, as though countless memories of low necklines didn’t suffice.

“This is just like in that book ―  _ The Princess and the Rogue _ ,” Ophilia sighed. “Like when he slips into the princess’ chambers to release her from the bandit―”

“After traveling the world to find the princess’ jewels!” Tressa exclaimed, bouncing in her chair. “I love that book!”

“Yes, the hero was very dashing,” Primrose agreed, eyes glittering with private amusement.

“Be this the book wherein the hero vows to stealen all the jewels in the world, including the lady’s heart?” H’aanit asked. “If so, twas a commendable effort.”

Alfyn frowned, turning to Cyrus. “Hey, Professor, do you know what they’re talking about?”

Cyrus sighed, looking mildly disgusted. “Tis a sordid romance novel that has effectively enraptured every one of my female students. On our last Hallow’s Eve, I was asked a dozen times whether I intended to disguise myself as a thief. I would have forbidden its presence in my classroom, but for the fact that it was published under the patronage of Lady Noa Wyndham, who claims a dear friend of hers wrote it. And the Wyndhams are, as you know, lordly patrons of Atlasdam’s royal academy―”

“A friend of Noa’s wrote it?” Tressa exclaimed, ignoring the eyeroll from the scholar she had just interrupted. Cyrus returned his focus to his breakfast, and Tressa added, “I thought it was published anonymously.”

“It was,” Primrose said, lightly. Her warm brown eyes went to Therion and she gave him a lovely, secretive smile. “I’m sure we’ll never know for certain who has written it.”

Therion frowned at her, confused. Why was she looking at him? He’d never heard of that stupid book until today. And even if he had, he had better things to do than read romantic drivel about people who never existed.

“I heard they were going to publish another one,” Ophilia gushed, and Tressa welcomed this news with a merry little bounce in her chair. “ _ The Lady and the Liar _ , apparently. The plot teasers say it’ll be about a man who keeps promising to stay but keeps leaving, and the lady pining for him to return.”

“That sounds  _ so  _ romantic,” Tressa sighed, contentedly, and even H’aanit nodded firmly.

Now Primrose was openly smiling at Therion, and Therion scowled at her, confused.

“Could we, perhaps, cease discussing this foul distraction from so many young women’s education and attend to the true matter at hand?” Cyrus said, indignantly.

“Yeah, I feel like our pal Therion needs our help more than some anonymous author needs us discussing their books,” Alfyn firmly said, prompting another chuckle from Olberic.

“Right,” Ophilia breathed, glancing at Therion apologetically. “My apologies.” Then, she added, under her breath, “It  _ is  _ very romantic, though.”

“Perhaps our Master Thief could talk us through his plan,” Olberic suggested, crossing his arms and studying Therion with interest, “that we might see in what ways we can be of assistance.”

Therion sighed. “Right.”

He had spent much of his drunken haze last night hashing out his options before going for his fateful… walk. Now he needed to iron out the details, but if any group of people could help him succeed, foolish and distracted and upsettingly optimistic though they were… his friends were the ones who would.

Friends. Therion paused on the word and studied them each in turn, surprised to realize they were more like… siblings. Or cousins. Or so he imagined, having never had any of either.

Strangely grateful for their unquestioning presence, he leaned in. They all leaned in towards him, ever so slightly, and smiles mirrored on their faces.

“Right,” he said again, clearing his throat. “Here is what I’ll need.”

* * *

“Oh,” Noa whispered when she stepped into the grand ballroom, “Oh, Cordelia, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Cordelia gazed with her long-time friend at the decorations adorning the room: the flowers, the food, the hundred lights ― and sighed. “I owe most of the preparations to Heathcote and the rest of my household staff, really.”

“I’ve only ever seen Ravus Manor in its mourning state,” Noa said, softly. She was still frail, but with the help of an attendant, she found herself stepping into the middle of the room, where the dancing would happen. It was early, and Noa had insisted on being the first to arrive, to help Cordelia welcome her guests. Cordelia suspected she would also be among the first to retire for the night. Noa was always so pale… “Is this the first time you’ve opened all the curtains in years? And aired out all the rooms? It’s so… bright. It’s such a beautiful home.”

Cordelia smiled, and found Heathcote, over her shoulder, was smiling too. “Thank you,” she said. “I doubt anyone could rival your family’s own, however. Wyndham House simply amazed me when I saw it.”

Noa managed a gentle, sad smile. She always had sad smiles. “Yes, well... Father keeps a merry home. We have visitors all the time. Scholars, artists…” She frowned and turned to her. “Speaking of artists…”

Cordelia felt her cheeks flush. “Let’s not mention artists here,” she mumbled.

“Nonsense,” Noa teased, rallying, “I’m told the acclaimed author of  _ The Princess and the Rogue _ was almost done with her latest masterpiece.”

“Acclaimed,” Cordelia snorted. “It was and still is pure romantic drivel.” Her own drivel, but drivel all the same. “I still can’t believe it’s as famous as it is.”

“No need to be so harsh,” Noa giggled, “One can only read so much classic literature before growing moss around one’s heart. It seems to have struck a chord.” She smiled. “I even lended Princess Mary my own copy.”

“And now I know we’ve sunk to new lows,” Cordelia laughed. “What is the world coming to?”

They exchanged private smiles, before Cordelia offered her arm to her friend and suggested that they wait in the front gardens for the next guests. The day was beautiful and bright, all sun and warm wind. The Cliftlands would do Noa some good before they were forced to remain in stuffy, crowded rooms.

“You didn’t mention when you saw him last,” Noa asked, when they were out of Heathcote’s hearing range.

“Him?” Cordelia asked, lightly.

“Don’t play dumb,” Noa admonished, eyes bright with mischief. “Your very own rogue.” She let Cordelia help her sit, her clumsy and weak limbs trembling as she moved. “When I read that description of him in your book, I was left heart pounding. Surely you haven’t let him slip away?”

“What makes you think I wrote my handsome protagonist to resemble Therion in any way?”

Noa made an annoyed sound that was firmly unladylike. “ _ Lia _ . Tell me.”

Cordelia laughed. “Oh, fine, you stubborn creature. Wherever did you learn to be so mulish?”

Noa shrugged, smiling. “A merchant girl I once met helped me realize I needed to pursue my own ambitions.”

“Suit yourself,” Cordelia said. “But be prepared to be thoroughly disappointed. I haven’t seen him in months.”

“Months?” Noa echoed, appalled. “Why?” She eyed Cordelia head to foot, taking in her friend’s clothes, the low neckline, the heavy jewels, the perfect golden hair, the flawless skin, the heart-shaped lips, and scowled when her gaze returned to Cordelia’s blue eyes. “Is he mad?”

Cordelia smiled. “Thank you for that indignation, but I don’t think so. He is a free spirit,” she explained, turning to look up into the sky, where birds were playing in the hot winds rising from the bluffs. “No doubt the thought of being mine feels as constraining as wearing a Fool’s Bangle.”

Noa’s expression softened and her hand came to rest on Cordelia’s bare shoulder. “Oh, Lia. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no matter,” Cordelia brightly said, hoping she sounded convincing. “It’s time I entered the marriage market more seriously, anyway.”

“It’ll be alright,” Noa said, encouragingly. “I wish I had the strength to dance properly, but it  _ is  _ nice to be showered with gifts and compliments by gentlemen of wealth and title.”

Cordelia smiled, listening to Noa tell her about the men who had approached her for courtship. Noa told of their promises, their sweet words, their ridiculous attempts at romance, and the wry amusement she derived from watching them shy away from discussing money.

It was unfortunate Cordelia had not kept her heart unattached. She thought she might have otherwise enjoyed the process.

“Anyway,” Noa said, as the first carriages began to rattle up the long alley that led to the manor, “with those rumours going around about Hugo Byron’s desire to propose tonight―”

Cordelia’s eyes snapped to Noa. “ _ What _ ?”

Noa laughed softly. “Oh, come on. You can’t be surprised,” she said. “He’s been trying to get your attention for a year now.” She frowned, then. “Really, I’ve heard everyone saying it’s as good as done.”

“I very much hope not,” Cordelia said, her voice strangled. The first carriage was drawing to a stop, and she stood from the bench, dusting her skirts off. “It would be nice to be consulted on the matter first.”

Noa made a face and accepted Cordelia’s hand to stand. She tucked her arm under her friend’s, and smiled unconvincingly. “It is your choice,” she said. “I suppose it all comes down to avoiding a scene.”

Somehow, that was no comfort.

* * *

“What are these things?” Tressa asked, chewing at a toffee with wonder. “I need to bring some of these back home. Ali would love them.”

Therion ignored her question, looking about the tailor’s shop and trying not to fidget. His fingers itched to lift those silver pins from the display; his boots could have easily hidden some of those cufflinks… But then the tailor was back, muttering to himself as he pinned his trouser edge to the right length, and Therion stifled his instinctual urge to steal.

“Who would have thought that you could cut such a dashing figure?” Cyrus asked, from his position on the other step stool. He had finished checking out his lapels in the large mirror studiously. “No doubt you’ll be the talk of the party.”

Therion stamped down a wave of panic. Getting noticed was not his usual fare. Being the talk of anything was… even less.

“I could offer you a cravat to match, sir,” the tailor said, to Therion. “A nice lavender colour―”

Before Therion could reply, he heard Tressa, from her lazy seat by the window, saying, “Fifty leaves.”

The tailor shot Tressa a startled look and said, “I usually sell my cravats for sixty.”

“That’s why you’ll sell it for fifty,” she said, nonchalantly. “And I’ll buy twenty-five more for my shop in Grandport.” She popped another toffee in her mouth.

Fifty leaves it was.

“Fifty leaves is an outrageous amount,” Therion said, when the tailor returned to the backstore for a perfectly-matching thread. Then, realizing he sounded like a miser, he muttered, “It’s just a piece of coloured cloth.”

Tressa scoffed. “Please. Those are Bolderfallian silks.” Like that explained everything. Then, to Cyrus, who was nodding in agreement, she said, “You’ll keep him in line, Professor, won’t you?”

Cyrus smiled. “As though I were teaching him calligraphy.” His eye caught sight of something outside and he waved. “And here comes our dear Lady Azelhart, at last.”

The beautiful woman entered the shop, the bell tinkling gently, and smiled down at Tressa, who was still chewing on toffees. Then, her eyes lifted to Therion. “How is the transformation coming along?”

“I guess it’s fine,” Therion said, looking down at the elegant suit he was wearing. Cyrus had insisted on dark colours (‘None of those garish pastels, have you  _ seen  _ his hair colour? Are we trying to wash him out?!’). “I don’t feel like a noble.”

“You never will,” Primrose said. She said it with a smile, but Therion wasn’t sure he found her assurance comforting. “Don’t worry. Lady Ravus doesn’t like you for your bloodline.”

“Did you get the invitations, Prim?” Tressa asked, straightening in the chair.

Primrose smiled. “It’s all in hand.”

That wasn’t a yes, but Therion figured she was just being mysterious. He narrowed his eyes at her, and the dancer smiled even more. Æber save him, they’d be the end of him.

“I suppose I’m more concerned about the other pursuits,” Cyrus said, stepping down from the step stool and shrugging out of the evening coat he had been trying on. “It’s late afternoon already and we’ve not heard a peep from anyone.”

Therion frowned, realizing he was right. The sun was lower on the horizon than he liked. “Maybe they found trouble.”

He was right. When they emerged from the tailor’s shop, almost an hour later, loaded down with his purchases (too many) and Tressa’s merchandise (even worse), the town bell rang the fifth hour, and still there was no sign of the others.

They finally found them conferring in the common room of the Sleepy Cait Inn.

It was Alfyn’s worried face that confirmed Therion’s concerns.

“What is it?” He asked, testily.

Ophilia was wringing her hands, and Olberic’s arms were crossed over his chest.

It was H’aanit who spoke first. “We found Hugo Byron.”

Cyrus’ brows were raised. “Isn’t that what we wanted?” At their nervous glances, he frowned. “Something tells me you didn’t like how you found him.”

“It’s not how we found him,” Alfyn confirmed. “It’s  _ where _ .” He shot Therion a look. “You ever heard of pulp?”

Therion nearly scoffed. Pulp was a poison as old as the world. He’d run amounts of it back and forth across Orsterra a few times, back in his dodgy childhood. “I have lived under  _ literal  _ rocks and I’ve heard of pulp,” he said. Then, frowning, the understanding dawned. “You found him in a pulp den.”

Ophilia was still wringing her fingers. “I offered to minister to the poor souls in there, but…” Æber bless her, Therion thought, feeling uncommon sympathy warm his chest. She was a guiding light, she couldn’t help it. But she was foolish if she thought that would help.

“You’d be wasting your time,” Therion said. Then, to Olberic, “Did anyone give you trouble?”

“No,” the warrior said.

“But it’s a problem,” Alfyn said. The apothecary’s face had more severity on it than Therion had ever seen in the past four years. “It’s becoming an epidemic. Wretches everywhere, addicted to the escape, unable to pay for it. Brokers making their fortunes selling it. My shop was broken into  _ twice  _ this year. They were looking for the teeth used to make the pulp.”

“So what? Hugo Byron’s a noble,” Therion said, without sympathy. “Let him pay his own way. If he wants to choke out his brain, let him. He can afford it.”

“He may not,” H’aanit said.

Therion scowled. “Why?”

“Debts,” Ophilia said, softly. “We inquired.”

“He’s broke,” Alfyn confirmed. “Lots of careful questions― most of his remaining servants are being paid on credit. Apparently all their financial problems will be solved when ―not  _ if _ ,  _ when _ ― he marries Lady Ravus.”

Therion frowned. “But if he’s high out of his mind, he won’t be a problem tonight.”

Olberic cleared his throat. “Byron will be there. He must be. The man is in Bolderfall for a single purpose: to leave with a rich wife. Or else his debtors will ensure he does not leave at all.”

“You’re competing against a desperate man,” Alfyn said, gravely.

Therion wasn’t used to competition. He usually was ahead of the game, or not playing at all.

But the prize… He thought back to Cordelia, her smile, her kindness― the way she writhed in the night… “So should I learn how to duel, or is it enough if I just slip a ring on Cordelia’s finger before she notices?”

Primrose laid a hand on his shoulder and exhaled. “Gods save you,” she flatly said. “It’s a good thing we’re here.”

* * *

Ravus House was lively with guests, as it hadn’t been since before her parents had died, and Cordelia was already tired.

“It’s lack of practice,” Noa generously said. Her eyes had softened in sympathy as she looked up at Cordelia. The sickly Wyndham girl was sitting on one of the benches that lined the ballroom, nursing a glass of white wine and looking longingly at the dancing couples. She was too weak to join them. “And playing host is always much more tiresome than being invited. Don’t worry, though. The welcomes are done. You can begin to relax.”

Cordelia couldn’t. Hugo Byron hadn’t arrived yet, and somehow that irritated her. For a man eager to propose, he was conspicuously slow to arrive, and the impending conversation he represented was one she desperately wanted to avoid, or at least get through quickly. The threat of it was dampening her good mood.

Why, oh  _ why _ , had Heathcote given him the invitation? She didn’t want to flirt tonight, no matter what he said.

“I’m nothing but a ball of nerves,” Cordelia said. She felt like she was being watched, or perhaps like everyone was holding their breath. Too many young men had inquired about her status, and too many times she’d had to smile nervously.

It would be much easier to invent a courtship than it would be to follow through and actually  _ get  _ one. Gods, the sooner Byron arrived, the sooner she could perhaps tell him she had some mysterious man who was not here tonight but who owned her heart and―

Oh this was so stupid. She was a fool. Why was the room so warm?

“Lia,” Noa whispered, “it’s alright. Why don’t you take a moment and powder your nose? I’ll entertain your guests for a little while.” She gestured grandly. “All shall bow before my humble throne.”

It was shameful, but Cordelia accepted with a grateful laugh. She needed air, or silence, or darkness, she wasn’t sure what, but the stress of staying in this open ballroom full of people was growing oppressive. She made her excuses and assured everyone she would be right back, and slipped into the hallway on the far end of the room, finding blissful silence.

_ For the glory of House Ravus _ , she reminded herself.

Then, because she dared not simply stand there, she strode off, relishing the peace for a little while.

The parlour at the end of the hallway had once been her father’s study; she’d transformed it into a private receiving room, but had never really used it. When she erupted into the quiet bubble, she exhaled with relief.

Damn Hugo Byron and his terrible courtship methods. They’d only met a few times since her parents had died and it was plain he cared for her fortune more than her person. Worst of all, he had committed the grave crime of not being lithe and quiet and handsome and Therion.

She was building up the resolve to return when the door behind her closed.

And when she turned she found her thoughts grinding to a halt.

At first she didn’t recognize him. She was accustomed to a young man who wore ample clothes to hide his movements and his stolen treasures, to a mop of unkempt pale hair, to a cheeky grin that she tried desperately ―and failed― not to fantasize about.

The man who had just closed the door of her study had the same frame, the same pale hair, but the resemblance ended there. This one was finely dressed ―as finely as any of her guests― and his hair was combed, his boots polished, his stature proud.

And he was scowling. Angrily.

“Therion,” she breathed, confused. Then, again, more confusedly, “Wait.  _ Therion _ ?”

“Before you say anything,” he said, curtly, “you need to know the truth about your suitor.”

Her lips moved, tried to ask, ‘What?’ but she could no longer summon the ability to speak.

Her thief advanced into the parlour, closing the distance between them. There was no seduction in it, no tenderness. He was frowning at her. “He’s got debts. A lot of them. And he’s fueling an addition to pulp. It’s a wretched substance, and he’s a fool for using it. He doesn’t love you. He just wants your money.”

Cordelia gawped a few times, and then her voice finally returned. “Gods, Therion. You’ve been away for months!”

His grey eyes flashed with anger again. “So you just fell for the charms of the first man to write you some stupid poetry? It’s not even  _ good  _ poetry.”

“I thought you didn’t want to see me again,” Cordelia continued, confused. “I left my windows open, somehow I thought―”

Therion’s eyes narrowed, and a new surge of something she didn’t recognize darkened his gaze. “Yeah, about  _ that _ ,” he said, and now he was close enough to her that she could tell he’d spent quite a bit of money on his clothes, since they were tailored. Thieves never had tailored clothes. “You might want to stop leaving your windows and curtains wide open for just anybody to look in.”

“It’s not like anyone’s been looking in, have they?” She accused. “You’ve been away for  _ months _ .” Oh gods, she realized belatedly. Last night― Had he― She flushed. “Wait, how long have you been back?”

“Are you even listening to me?” He snapped, which was no answer at all. “Hugo Byron is not a good suitor for you. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking, considering that man for a husband― you’re smarter than that.”

“First of all,” she said, impatiently, “I am smart enough to make my own decisions, and you have no idea what you’re talking about. Secondly, you have some nerve coming in here, having opinions on my suitors, real or imagined, when you’ve given no sign of life to me for  _ months _ .” She threw up her hands. “Months! I could have caught some disease and died and you wouldn’t have known until what― this morning?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And  _ thirdly _ , I am not engaged to Hugo Byron. Hugo Byron has asked nothing of the sort from me. Yet. So I would very much like everyone to stop acting like it’s a done thing! But even if it were, what right do  _ you  _ have to comment on my decisions? You disappear for months at a time! It’s not like you command a regular position in my life!”

“He’s only after your money,” Therion repeated. “And if you had the sense Æber gave a cait―”

“ _ Everyone  _ is after my money!” She shouted. “Everyone!”

That did give him pause. He seemed startled to see his anger reflected in her.

She was trembling, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was his sudden appearance, maybe it was his tailored clothes, or the confusion, or the frustration, or the fact that he was so damned handsome and he was screaming at her― whatever it was, she was tired and angry and shaking with the urge to throw vases at him or kiss him or push him out the window into the crag of rocks beyond. All options were equally appealing.

“Everyone,” she repeated, “wants my money. Every single man I meet, every single man who ever courts me will look at me  _ and  _ at my accounts, and if they do it in  _ that  _ order I will consider myself lucky.”

Therion had gone quiet. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “ _ I _ don’t want your money.”

She wanted to cry. “No, Therion. I know you don’t.”  _ And you don’t want me either. _ She began to pace. “Maybe Heathcote is right. Maybe it is time for me to move on.” She craned her neck; a headache was growing behind her eyes. “Maybe not Hugo, but  _ someone _ . I could go for Augustus Stoneham― he’s a bit old for my taste, but he’s refined and kind and he actually knows something about books, so we’d have something to talk about. Or Titus Redwing. He’s a distinguished lieutenant, he cuts a dashing figure,  _ and  _ he’s here tonight, so maybe if I ask him before Hugo arrives―”

“You don’t love any of them,” Therion said. His voice cut the still air in the room like a knife, and she paused.

She wasn’t sure what to say. He was right, but so what? She turned. “What do you care? Why are you here? I’m pretty sure you received no invitation. I’d have sent one, of course,” she added. “Except you never gave me an address.”

Therion shifted his weight. “Cordelia…”

“I  _ offered  _ you an address,” she continued. “I said, ‘If you want to stay, I have a guest room,’ because I figured it had to be better than the inn or… or whatever hole you like to crawl into. You ran away. You always run away.”

Something leaped in his jaw. He wasn’t looking at her.

Anger surged inside of her all over again. “And then,  _ just  _ when I begin to move on, you come back. Are you doing that on purpose?” She planted her hands on her waist. “How long before you run again? A day? A night? Maybe I’ll be lucky and you’ll stay for two?”

“I thought I’d have more time―” Therion started.

“More time?” She echoed, confused. “More time for  _ what _ ?” She ran her hands over her face, exhausted beyond reason. “You know, Therion,” she finally said, “I’ve had enough. What do you need? There’s money in the safe,” she gestured vaguely to the wall vault, “although I’m sure you’d already have helped yourself. I left my jewellery box unlocked in my room, and I won’t be going back there before the early hours of the morning, so it’s ripe for perusal. If it’s food you want, the kitchens are busy― they might not even notice you taking from the larder―”

“Cordelia,” he snapped.

“No,” she said, raising her voice. “I’ve had enough. I’m going back. You’re welcome to stay. You’re welcome to go. You always do as you please, anyway.” She drew herself up as tall as she could ―not tall enough― and was proud that her chin didn’t wobble. “Good night, Therion.” Then, as she reached for the doorknob, she turned to look at him, inscrutable as he was in the half-light. “It was nice to see you again,” she breathed, and she meant it.

She swung the door open as she heard Therion approaching, and came face to face with Heathcote, tall and unreadable in the doorframe.

She needed to stop surrounding herself with men whose expressions she couldn’t read.

Heathcote saw Therion immediately, but he did not look alarmed. He didn’t even look surprised. Not even by Therion’s clothes. So maybe he  _ was  _ going senile. “Milady, Hugo Byron has arrived. He has inquired after you.”

“Oh, great,” she groused. “I’ll take care of him.”

She pushed past Heathcote, wondering why Therion wasn’t trying to stop her.

But why would he? Her heart squeezed. She didn’t look back at her two thieves and suppressed resolute tears.

* * *

The butler shot Therion a glance as they reentered the ballroom. Cordelia was smiling at Hugo Byron and the rest of her guests, a jewel in the light of the chandeliers.

“Fix it,” Heathcote said, so low Therion wasn’t sure he’d heard him right at first.

As the butler walked off to coordinate the servants, Therion was left adrift, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

This was not at all what he had planned. He had followed her, had planned to explain himself, to declare― to declare…

It didn’t matter. He’d bungled it, losing control of the situation like a first-year pickpocket.

He shoved his hands into his finely-tailored pockets, feeling naked and exposed, like a raw nerve.

It wasn’t his fault, Therion decided. Talking wasn’t his forte. He had none of Cyrus’ charm or Olberic’s presence or Alfyn’s casual ease. He had meant to convey that Byron was a bad prospect. He’d meant to explain he had no need of her money, no want of it. He’d meant to offer himself as a suitor.

In his mind’s eye, Cordelia would have been startled. She’d have asked if he meant it. He would have assured her that he did. She would have been delighted. She might even have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him and maybe they would have fallen to the carpet and maybe―

Well, he’d bungled it.

Primrose approached with two full glasses, drawing eyes from men around the room in her fine red gown. “Nothing says triumph like glaring at a woman’s other suitors murderously,” she lightly said. She handed him a glass, and he accepted it begrudgingly.

“Cider?” He said, looking down at it.

Primrose looked supremely amused. “She knows you like apples.”

Damn everything and all of these people to the thirteen hells, no, Æber take him― “I screwed up.”

Cyrus, in his own tailored suit, had been filling a plate at the buffet table; the scholar approached. Behind him, Ophilia was happily piling her own plate with little pastry bites. She had a sweet tooth, and she cast a guilty look at them when she saw them conferring, finally hurrying over. There were pastry flakes on her exquisitely expensive white evening gown, and she brushed them away absently.

“Did I miss anything?” She asked.

“Our Master Thief has messed up,” Primrose said, looking completely unconcerned.

Cyrus laughed incredulously. “How? All you needed to do was present your case.”

“Not all men have your ability with words, let alone with women,” Primrose warmly commented.

Therion tried not to get angry at them. After all, it was Primrose who had secured four invitations for tonight, leveraging the Azelhart name in a way that she was usually loathe to do. And Cyrus had overseen his wardrobe… And Ophilia, well, she just didn’t deserve anger. Snapping at her would be like kicking a kitten.

But he was angry and directionless, and Cordelia was running a hand on Hugo Byron’s sleeve, and the man was leering down at her and―

“Oh,” Primrose said, following his gaze. “Right. Onward.” She nudged him. “Remember the dance steps I showed you.”

Therion downed the cider all in one gulp, and Ophilia plucked the glass from his fingers gingerly.

Cyrus leaned in. “All you need to do is extend your hand and ask, ‘May I have this dance?’”

Easier said than done. Cordelia was completely surrounded. By and by he saw too many tempting pockets, too many watches he could easily lift, too many jeweled lorgnettes laying half-forgotten―

And Cordelia, the only jewel that mattered, was standing amidst a group of men teasing and flirting, and―

Primrose strode ahead of him and entered Cordelia’s circle, running a hand seductively up Hugo Byron’s sleeve. “Well, well, what have we here?”

Ophilia demurred for another one of Cordelia’s hopefuls, drawing him away from the circle, and Cyrus began to interrogate a third on the origin of his coat―

And then Therion had caught up to Cordelia, who had watched her circle dissolve bemusedly, and he swallowed the lump in his throat and the glare of the lights and the raw terror of what he was about to do, and said, “Dance with me.”

She looked at him, then at his outstretched hand, then back at him, blue eyes confused. “What are you doing out here?”

She was taking too long to decide, so he just took her hand and pulled her to the dance floor, and she followed, apparently stunned. Good.

Of course, by the time he had her in his arms, she was frowning again. “Therion―”

“I bungled it,” he said. “In the study. I meant to say― I don’t want to run anymore.” He inhaled, wondering what had happened to his usual assurance, and he realized it had vanished the moment he’d stepped into the light. “I don’t need your money. I have my own.”

“Stolen?” She asked, still frowning, but she was more wry than upset, and he was used to that question by now.

“Not from you,” he said, pulling his lips into a smile.

She sighed. “Honestly, Therion―”

“Look,” he interrupted, “I meant it. I don’t want your money. I just didn’t mean for the rest to come out like it did.” Primrose was keeping Hugo Byron occupied; the man was moving sluggishly, and was indulging Primrose for now, but his eyes kept turning towards Cordelia, and Therion realized he needed to be quick. He turned back to Cordelia, who didn’t seem like she was about to dart from his embrace. A small comfort. “Don’t choose him, Cordelia. You don’t have to choose me, but at least don’t choose him. He won’t make you happy.”

Her brow was furrowed. “What do you―”

“I don’t have a title,” Therion said, interrupting again. “And the money I have is… well, you’re right, it’s not exactly legitimate. And I don’t even have a last name. It’s not exactly the kind of prospect a lady of noble blood would want. And I’m pretty sure Heathcote still doesn’t trust me. And I spend way too much time sleeping out of doors. And I’m a mess with no family.” He was running out of breath, and couldn’t seem to catch it. “But I keep trying to tell myself to leave, and you keep drawing me back, and I’m tired of pretending I want to run. Because I don’t.”

She was pale. There was concern in her eyes. He wanted to kiss her. He suppressed the urge.

“Therion,” she breathed, “are you asking to court me?”

Was he? He blinked. “Uh.”

Honestly, he hadn’t really thought about the order in which these things happened. The  _ propriety  _ of things. The  _ civilized way  _ of things. He wanted… He wanted to kiss her. That much, he was sure of. He wanted to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her, he wanted to see her smile at him, eyes lit by the sun of the Cliftlands, and he wanted to bring her jewels from all around the world, and run his hands down over her―

“Uhh―”

Hugo Byron had disengaged from Primrose and was making his way over to them and Therion had lost his ability to think and Primrose was gesturing in warning and Cordelia was still staring up at him with something in her eyes that enraptured him―

“Lady Ravus,” Hugo Byron said. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown― he was still swaying a little. He reached for Cordelia.

Therion panicked.

“Marry me, Cordelia,” he blurted out.

Loudly.

Time slowed. Whispers erupted. Hugo Byron froze, his expression trapped in a sort of horror that might have been comical if Therion weren’t suddenly keenly aware of a hundred eyes on him and wonderful Cordelia, beautiful Cordelia, and Primrose’s bark of startled laughter and Ophilia’s gasp of delight and Cyrus’ groan of exasperation and Heathcote’s thundering glare and Cordelia’s widening eyes, Cordelia’s lips parting in surprise, Cordelia’s amazing sapphire blue dress that made her eyes look like pieces of sky, Cordelia’s chattering friends around them, Cordelia’s glittering world, Cordelia’s confusion, Cordelia’s trembling hands in his, Cordelia’s slender fingers, Cordelia’s  _ bare  _ fingers―

_ Oh Æber, Cordelia _ to whom he had just fucking  _ proposed. _

Time exploded around him. Hugo Byron’s cry of “ _ What! _ ?” nearly pierced Therion’s eardrum, and voices rose around them in a cacophony, and Therion stifled his panic. He  _ never  _ created noise. He  _ never _ attracted eyes. He was shadow itself, he wasn’t the kind of man who stood in the light and begged for anything he couldn’t steal―

Cordelia blinked.

Therion braced his heart and prepared to do what he did best: run.

Then Cordelia found her voice and she said― “Alright.”

New gasps erupted around the room. Ophilia squeaked out a happy, ‘ _ Yes! _ ’ and Primrose and Cyrus gaped at each other and Heathcote was stalking across the room and Hugo Byron was livid with rage and―

Therion was gone before anyone could stop him.

* * *

One moment Cordelia was dancing in the middle of her own ballroom, accepting a marriage proposal, and the next she was in a side hallway, stunned, feeling like her arm would rip out of its socket.

Therion’s hand was still holding hers as he dragged her down the hall. He didn’t look back to see whether she was willing to follow, because of course she would follow.

Had she hallucinated?

Had she just―

Had he just―

“Therion―” she panted. Behind her, in the ballroom, a clamour was rising and she could hear Hugo Byron making accusations left and right, so she hesitated and nearly turned… “Maybe we should…”

“They can handle it,” Therion said, and Cordelia wasn’t sure who he meant, and then she remembered his travel companions and she remembered he’d claimed he had no family and she wanted to laugh madly, because he was full of it, so unaware of his good fortune―

He slammed the door to the parlour behind them, locked the knob, and pushed her against the panel, and he kissed her, and Cordelia forgot what she wanted to ask, because she was suddenly full of her own good fortune.

“This,” he rasped, when he broke away for air, both his hands clutching her face like he worried she’d tear away from him, “is what I meant to do.”

“You just asked me to marry you,” she whispered against his lips, trying to stifle a bout of mad laughter, because this was the most ridiculous and amazing thing that had ever happened to her in her short miserable life―

“I overshot,” he agreed. But he didn’t seem to mind, because he angled his head down again and kissed her some more and captured her lips again and she felt all the blood in her body pounding in her ears and her spine melting, and then he broke away just before she could lose her mind completely, and his voice was different, dry as stone and just as heavy when he said, “Oh, fuck,  _ I just asked you to marry me _ .”

She flinched. “Have you come to your senses?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, studying her. “Why haven’t you slapped me yet?” He was still pinning her against the door; far away, a crowd’s clamour was rising, but she could  _ not  _ bring herself to care, because his body was so lithe and firm against hers― “Wait, did you actually say  _ yes _ ?”

“I think so?” She laughed, confused. She felt drunk. He tasted like cider. Could she get drunk from kissing him? She wanted to find out.

“And you mean it?”

“Do  _ you  _ mean it?” She shot back, voice rising in pitch.

“I think?” he said, eyes wide. “I mean, I want to kiss you and hold you and treasure you and bring you gifts― kinda like a cait. Is that why caits do it?― and I want to touch you all the time, and I want to see what you look like when you’re eighty-five, and I want to fuck you, gods save me, but I want to fuck you―”

She slapped a hand to his mouth, stifling a bout of hysterical giggling, and she saw a smile appear on his face under her fingers, because this was the most ridiculous and wonderful thing that had ever happened in the history of the world. “You’re terrible,” she breathed, trying not to explode with sheer joy.

Therion kissed her again and this time he was gentle, slow, longing, hungry, like a man drowning.

“Also, I saw you last night,” he groaned, and he ground his hips against hers so insistently she felt him through her dress, and she did push him away then with a gasp.

“You  _ what _ ?”

“Don’t get mad,” he said, raising a finger and backing away, like a man trying to appease a wildcat, “I only meant to check in on you, and we need to talk about your security―”

“You  _ saw  _ me?!” She squeaked, indignantly. “You― oh, by all the gods, you were at my window, that’s what you meant by―  _ you saw me?! _ ” She shoved him. “You bastard― you watched, didn’t you? You watched me―” He was hard, she saw, from the tent in his trousers, and he looked to be in physical pain, and it was such a ridiculous situation that she wanted to tear her hair out and throw him to the carpet and mount him or throw him out the window again― “You just watched me,” she accused, breathless, “and you didn’t even offer to  _ help _ ?”

He stared for a moment, and then the pain on his features became even more pronounced. “Now that’s just unfair,” he muttered. “I didn’t know that was an option.”

She threw her hands up, rolling her eyes. “Well, I don’t leave my window open for the caits, Therion,  _ do I _ ?”

He ran a ragged hand over his face. “Yes, I see it  _ now _ , and I’m an idiot. That’s the theme of the week: Therion is an idiot. Now we both know.”

There was a knock at the door, and Cordelia yelped.

“Milady,” Heathcote said, through the panel, “Miss Wyndham wishes to know if you’re well. And I would like to know if I need to murder anyone on your behalf.”

Cordelia exhaled shakily. “I’m fine, Heathcote. I’ll be right out.” She shot Therion a dry look. “I  _ am  _ still the hostess of this party. I need to get back. Can I trust you to collect yourself for a few minutes without running?”

Therion glanced down at the tent of his trousers and sighed. “... Yeah.”

She crossed the room over to him and grabbed his face, pulling him in for a bruising kiss that he returned with fervour. “Hold on to that, I’ll be needing it later,” she whispered, and she was gratified to feel him shudder. She was pretty sure he whimpered, too, falling forward in her wake when she pulled away.

Supremely pleased with herself, she unlocked the door, revealing Heathcote’s suspicious glare.

She was halfway to the ballroom when she realized there was a ring on her finger.

* * *

Tressa was far too excited. She hopped from foot to foot.

“I can’t believe I missed it!” She exclaimed, half-whining, half-squealing. “Therion proposed! In front of a crowd!”

Alfyn was still confused. “Yeah, buddy, about that― is that what you intended to do? I thought we were just trying to get Byron out of the way so you could, like, offer to court her.”

Therion sipped at his ale, still feeling a little turned-around. And drunk. But this was only his first mug, and it was a good sort of dizziness, so he didn’t mind. “It just sort of happened.”

Primrose laughed. “You should have seen him. Byron was approaching, intent and determined, and our poor little Therion was standing there with his darling and he turned to her and―” She kissed the tips of her thumb and forefinger loudly, with flair. “Beautiful.”

Cyrus was still shaking his head. “I don’t think I could ever have pictured young Therion settling down anywhere. I thought…”

“We thought thou liken freedom,” H’aanit summarized. Next to her, Olberic was smirking into his tankard.

Ophilia clasped her hands together, to her chest, “It was even better than in  _ The Princess and the Rogue _ ! A little less dignified, perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully, and Therion scowled at her, “but romantic all the same.”

Therion didn’t reply, but he felt the glow of a little happy ember inside his chest, and he realized he was smiling. Tressa and Ophilia cooed excitedly, which made him scowl, and Alfyn clapped his shoulder.

“So,” Primrose asked, grinning at him like a cait who caught the mouse. “What are you doing here with us, anyway? Saving yourself until marriage?”

Therion shot her a glare, remembering Cordelia insisting that he spend his last reunion evening with his friends. His family, she called them. And remembering her whisper that her window would be unlocked that night.

He wouldn’t be drinking late.

“About that,” Olberic said, breaking his long silence. “When  _ is  _ the big day?”

Therion glanced up, and the glow of happiness faded, replaced by cold terror as he realized he didn’t know. “Uh…”

“Fear not, darling,” Primrose said, waving his panic away like smoke. “You’ll have at least a year before you need to stand up in front of the world and say ‘I do’. Noble engagements take forever.”

Therion snorted. Well, then. He  _ definitely  _ wouldn’t be saving himself until marriage.

“You should get married in Flamesgrace!” Tressa exclaimed. “I bet we could get you the Cathedral of Flame, couldn’t we?” She nudged Ophilia with her elbow, causing the young cleric to spill a bit of her drink.

“I think that could work,” Ophilia started. “I could speak to Lianna…”

“Then it sounds like we know where we’re meeting next year,” Cyrus said, genially. “Unless anyone objects?”

“Assuming we get invited,” H’aanit softly said. She was smiling at Therion’s pallor with supreme amusement.

Tressa gasped. “What do you mean? Therion’s gonna invite us, isn’t he?” She turned on him with wide eyes. “Aren’t you?”

“I’ll… talk to Cordelia,” Therion managed. What had he gotten himself into?

“He’s already speaking like a husband,” Alfyn said, shaking his head.

“Shut up,” Therion groused. But he was smiling. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Not only because of Cordelia ―although there was definitely, unmistakably, unforgettably Cordelia― but because of this. Because of moments like this one, where he sat in good company and felt more valuable than gold, where the world seemed to take a moment and remind him he wasn’t alone.

Olberic raised his tankard. The others followed suit, merrily.

Therion jostled his mug along with theirs, grinning, comfortable with a new absolute truth.

He would never be alone again.


End file.
